


Proposal Filler

by rideswraptors



Series: Gallavich Shorts [1]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Explicit Language, It's shameless, M/M, Mentions of sex and violence, so basically what you'd expect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 03:27:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22389322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rideswraptors/pseuds/rideswraptors
Summary: Between the bar and Lip's announcement, and after.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Series: Gallavich Shorts [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1611559
Comments: 16
Kudos: 248





	Proposal Filler

Mickey understood violence. It was give and give until you had to take it. And that was all good. It made sense to him. He wasn't a words guy. He was an action guy. He didn't give some bullshit speech about the man he loved; he came out to a bar full of people who knew him to stop Ian walking out the door. He didn't try to explain to Fiona that he was sticking around, he just threw Ian over his shoulder and made sure he got home all right. He snitched to get back home. He held Ian's hand and kissed him in front of his family and stuffed bills in the cash can. He forged Frank’s fucking signature to help Liam out. He made sure Ian kept taking his meds. 

But Mickey had learned to use his words too. And he knew when to call Ian's bullshit, bullshit. He knew the actions outweighed his words. He should have known  _ better _ , but he was a Milkovich, and they were stupid sons of bitches. He should have remembered Ian coming to him for help, visiting him in jail, checking on him, jumping fences with him. The Ian willing to stab someone to save their relationship in jail was the real Ian, not this idiot who let his brain chemistry get the best of him sometimes. 

But Mickey understood violence.

He understood Ian beating the shit out of some nerd in public was the dam busting open. He knew that if Ian had finally lost it on Byron, then he was done with this shit. For good. Well if Ian was done fucking around, then so was he.

He punched the fucking fairy for good measure, but he was asking for it. Talking about Ian like that. Trash.

Then Gallagher finally made good. Finally followed up his actions with the right words, and Mickey wasn't in any sort of condition to wait for him to spit it the fuck out. Not in front of these pussy ass rich fuckers with their stupid fucking beer and bad music. The pussy speeches would come later. After Gallagher made up for his bullshit. After Mickey reminded him who he belonged to. Dumbass nearly broke his leg again jumping back up like that, but Mickey didn't care. Didn't care about the people watching them. Didn't care about Byron whimpering on the damn floor. Maybe he was a joke to these people, but they were a joke to him, too. Ian was the only real thing. Moved a whole country away just to figure that shit out. 

"Let's get the fuck outta here."

"You didn't like the music?"

He shoved at Ian's face, making him cackle.

"Shut up tough guy, one of these snobs probably called the cops. Get gimpin'."

"Byron has my crutches."

"Why the fuck--?" He bent down angrily to jerk Ian's crutches back. "You don't take a man's crutches Barry, for fuck's sake!"

"It's Byron!" his buddy snapped at him.

"Who gives a fuck? Gallagher, Jesus fucking--stop fucking around or you're gonna break it again."

" _ You _ broke it."

" _ You _ fell down the stairs. Some people can take a fucking hit. Would you just-- _ arrghh _ do  _ not _ swing like that!"

When the got outside, Ian managed to swing over to the side alley, going in the direction of the nearing sirens. As the cops came by, Mickey pretended to be helping him. No one would believe that a guy on crutches started a fight anyway. 

They were quiet until they made it to the train station, standing close together, Mickey's arm around his waist. It was new for them, Mickey's PDA. He still couldn't believe he managed it without breaking into hives. But Ian seemed to appreciate taking some of the weight off his arms, and Mickey never minded holding him up. 

“So we’re not ever gonna talk about the last few weeks again, right?” 

“Fuck no we’re not talking about it.” 

“I’m sorry I thought you killed Paula.”

“I’m sorry you were a dumbass.”

“I deserve that.”

“ _ Yeah _ .”

“But you did break my leg.”

“You ditched me at the altar.”

“It was a courthouse.”

“Same damn thing.” 

“I thought you killed somebody and you were willing to marry me anyway. It was a messed up situation.” 

“I thought we weren’t talking about it!” 

“So shut me up.”

He did. Pretty thoroughly too. Somebody down the way heckled them, but Mickey just gave them the finger and kept kissing Ian. He had one arm around his waist and one hand holding a crutch so that Ian could wrap him up, arm braced behind his neck to keep him where he wanted him. Mickey had to stifle the urge to shout that he wasn’t the one trying to go anywhere. All he did was try to get back to here. To this. To Ian. That’s all he wanted, and it was a relief that Ian finally saw that. 

“Think you forgot something, firecrotch,” Mickey teased against his lips. Ian brushed their noses together, crowding him, laughing lightly through his nose.

“Did I?” 

“Uh huh. If you’re gonna make an honest woman outta me, you better do it right.” 

Ian jerked his chin down toward his chest, flashing him a flirty look that never failed to get him riled up. But he was suspicious now, so he reached up and dipped a finger under his collar, and fished out a chain. Those damn rings were still on it.

“You kept these?”

He shrugged. “I promised.” Ian leaned back on his crutches, so Mickey could reach up and take the chain off so he could drop the rings into his palm. They weren’t the nicest rings in the world, but they matched. He had a vague memory of Svetlana putting a ring on his finger, remembered how sick it made him. Nauseous. Faint. He didn’t feel sick now. His heart hammered in his chest and he had the urge to fight or fuck or just scream. It was excitement. Adrenaline. He knew he was blushing and he just didn’t give a shit.

“Fuck,” he whispered, sliding it onto his own finger. Gallagher was smiling at him again. That big dumb smile he always flashed at the worst possible moment, when Mickey was feeling vulnerable and most likely to do something stupid. Mickey loved that stupid smile. He’d loved it the first time Ian visited him in jail. Loved it even when he hated it. “Shut up,” he grumbled. “Gimme yer hand.” 

He flipped it up with a smirk, so Mickey could snatch his finger and put it on him. He caught Ian’s gaze and held it while he kissed up the side of his ring finger, flicking his tongue out against his skin. Ian’s brows went up as he tracked his progress. 

“Train’s comin’,” Mickey muttered, lips still against his finger.

“Uh huh.” 

“I ain’t holdin’ the door for you.” 

“Uh huh.” 

Moth to a flame, Ian followed when Mickey led him onto the train car. Ian flopped into the closest seat available, and Mickey scared off an old biddie who was sitting too close. Maybe other people would have told him off, but Ian just smirked at him. People always said he was too this, too that, too much. Ian stopped him from killing people, sure, nagged him about  _ everything _ but he didn’t try to change him. Didn’t try to clean him up or make him more “presentable” or whatever. Even when they were kids and Mickey was running around like a filthy street urchin, he’d never said a damn word about it. Okay, they bickered when they had to share a jail cell, but other than that--

“ _ What _ ?” Mickey ground out when he realized Ian was staring at him. 

“Nothing. I’m just happy you’re here.” 

Mickey angled his head slightly as Ian brought a hand to his face to kiss him. It was so similar to the courthouse that his stomach clenched. But Ian was nothing but calm and content. His knuckles were a bit busted up. They’d need to be cleaned when they got home. 

_ Home _ .

“Is...uh, your family gonna be home tonight?” 

Ian scoffed, dropping his hand away from his face to hold Mickey’s hand in his lap. 

“Shit, I don’t know. It’s like herding cats. Why?”

“We gonna tell ‘em?”

Ian shrugged again. “Maybe. Why?” Mickey shook his head and looked away. “Mick?” 

He lowered his voice. “What if my dad shows up?” 

Mickey was pretty surprised he hadn’t already, considering he’d been back in town for awhile and was very obviously  _ with _ Ian. He wasn’t exactly the calm, rational type.

“You worried?” Ian asked carefully, very obviously picking around old wounds. Mickey rolled his eyes hard.

“Not about  _ me _ , dumbass. There’s kids in the house. And you know he hates the black ones.” 

“Is there anybody your dad doesn’t hate?” 

“No!” he snapped. “That’s my point.” 

His hands went flying, but Ian just chased them down and snagged them in his own again. Mickey let out a frustrated huff and stubbornly refused to make eye contact again. Ian hated that shit, when Mickey tried to disconnect from him. But sometimes that was just how he stayed sane. Gallagher had the tendency to make him think crazy shit when he looked too long at him. Now he knew what it was, that he was just in love with the guy, but that knowledge didn’t stop him from being stupid and thinking about white picket fences.

He felt Ian lean in and press a kiss to his temple. Mickey couldn’t resist pushing into the touch, wanting him there as long as possible. He remembered a time where he would have beat the shit out of Ian for even thinking about doing this. These days, he felt like he was dying without it.

“Look, we don’t have to say anything,” Ian muttered in the small space between them. “Not tonight. Just get home--”

“Fuck,” Mickey added firmly.

Ian snorted. “And figure it out tomorrow.” 

“ _ Thank you _ ,” he said so quietly, he almost didn’t hear it himself. Ian just kissed him quick again and settled back. Mickey leaned heavily into his side, too tired to give a shit if they looked gay or not. 

Turns out, they didn’t have to worry too much about the Gallaghers getting snoopy because Lip had an announcement to make. A stupid announcement. What a fucking idiot. Milwaukee? What the hell was in Milwaukee? Ian didn’t seem to be any more clued in than the rest of them. 

“Leave to it Gallagher drama to take the pressure off,” Mickey grumbled as the others talked over each other. 

“Saved by the bell,” Ian laughed half-heartedly. He was twisting his ring, looking distracted. Which was no good. Why was it that whenever he and Ian were good and level and on the same page, something fucking stupid had to come along and fuck with them? No doubt the shitstorm was just beginning. Who knew what was coming for them next?

Ian dropped a hand onto his and gave him one of those half-smiles. He looked calm again, not so distant. Mickey felt the coil in his chest unfurl, his shoulders relaxed so much that he was almost startled at how tense he’d gotten. Ian swiped a thumb over his skin and just kept looking at him. Lip left, Carl in his wake, still asking questions. Debby took the little one up to bed. So it was just him, Ian, Liam, sitting on the couch, looking at them with big eyes.

“You guys back together?” he asked flatly. 

“Yeah,” Ian answered. “We’re back together.”

“Good.” He tilted his head, brow furrowed. “You gonna get married?” 

Ian let out a harried sigh and dropped his head back, obviously stressed. Mickey spared him a quick glance before looking back at the kid. 

“Yeah, we’re getting married.” 

Liam scowled, getting up from the couch. “ _ Ugh _ , you’re gonna leave, too,” he groused as he went up the stairs, head hanging. Mickey lifted a hand, voice laced with sarcasm.

“Yeah, man! Thanks for the support. We’re really happy.” 

Ian snorted and ducked his head against Mickey’s shoulder, shaking a little. Mickey calmed down when he realized he was laughing instead of crying. Which was really a toss up at this point. 

“Okay, giggles, whatever.” He threw an arm around him, definitely  _ not _ snuggling him. Ian lifted his head just enough to meet his eyes.

“That’s probably the best we’re gonna get, you know.”

“What? No shovel talk? These motherfuckers don’t love you enough to threaten to murder me?” Ian pulled a face. “I guess I can give  _ myself _ a shovel talk. My threats have gotten really good.” 

“Learning Spanish definitely upped your game.”

“I think so too. It’s just more  _ menacing. _ ” 

“But why does anybody have to threaten anybody? Haven’t we had enough of that shit for one lifetime?” 

“I don’t know, that’s just how it’s done.” 

“Fine. Carl might threaten you. Or not. I dunno what’s going on with him at the moment.”

“Fiona woulda threatened me,” he mumbled, staring at their hands where they were intertwined. 

"Do you wanna call Fiona and tell her so she can threaten you?"

Mickey tried to stifle the anticipation that swelled up. 

"Can we?"

Ian laughed outright and ducked down to kiss him roughly. "C'mon weirdo. Bed.”

Mickey made sure to take a detour before they ended up in the bedroom. He manhandled a bemused Ian into the bathroom and onto the toilet seat, making him sit while he fished out their first aid stash. The Gallaghers were the first people he’d ever met who didn’t just use vodka and duct tape socks over their cuts. He and Ian had spent enough time cleaning each other up that he’d learned how to do it properly though. 

He held Ian’s big, dumb hand in his and carefully abraided the already scabbing over cuts so that the peroxide could really get in there. He was pretty focused on making sure he got everything. The last time one of his knuckles got infected and gross, and Mickey wasn’t letting that shit anywhere near his dick. 

“You know what I was thinking?” Ian said quietly, very obviously staring at him.  _ As usual _ . Mickey ignored the staring to keep cleaning his damn knuckles. Instead of answering, he just grunted that he was listening. Ian chuckled.

“I was thinking we don’t have an anniversary.” 

Mickey snorted. “Anniversary of  _ what _ ?” 

Surprisingly, Ian laughed too. “That’s what I mean, dumbass.” 

Mickey grunted. “Yeah well, nobody’s gonna remember shit like that.” What he really meant to say was that all of their good days, their memorable moments, were tainted with some other bullshit. The days in between had been pretty great, but every time they decided to do something for themselves, whenever it had been going really good, it all went to shit. Quick, too. Fuck, their first time with any privacy had been a clusterfuck, which  _ rapidly  _ deteriorated. When he came out, his dad beat the shit out of them, and then Ian got diagnosed. They didn’t have some bitchass Hollywood rom-com moment to remember and celebrate. All their moments happened when they were falling apart. 

Ian must have sense his quick change of mood. In his own defense, he was actively trying not to remember a shitstorm of bad memories. He settled a little when Ian’s hand came up to his hip, sliding under his shirt for skin to skin contact. 

“Hey,” Ian said gently. Mickey blew air out of his nose, trying to relax. “Didn’t mean to get you worked up.” 

“Not worked up,” he argued, soaking some toilet paper with peroxide. Ian’s hand lifted from his hip and he nearly growled in protest.

“Yeah you are,” he said, poking Mickey’s forehead, “you’ve got that little vein popping out like when--”

Mickey smacked his hand away. “Stop lookin’ at me,” he said as menacing as possible. But Ian just smiled at him like he always did whenever Mickey started threatening murder and mayhem. Mickey tossed the toilet paper and leaned down to crowd Ian back, bracing one hand on the sink and the other on the back of the toilet so that Ian was bracketed there. He just leaned back, his head tipped against the wall, looking up at him. 

“We’ve been doin’ this too long, and everybody we know sucks. So I’d rather forget most of it if you don’t mind.” 

Ian’s hands came up to his neck and face, fingers stroking over skin, eyes tracking his own progress.

“Today was pretty good.” 

“Started out like crap, but okay.” 

“Ended good, though. Which is progress.” Ian sat up, dislodging Mickey from his spot, and wrapped his arms around his waist, chin settled on his stomach. Mickey dropped a hand into his hair reflexively, sinking his fingers into the thick of it. “Let’s remember today. Write it down or something. Just in case.”

Mickey stiffened, “Just in case  _ what _ ?” 

Ian shrugged broadly, “Everybody we know  _ sucks _ ,” he quoted back to him, “What are the chances we get married in a normal, calm way?” 

“Zero to none.”

Ian shrugged with his eyebrows, point proven. Mickey, in all honesty, had lost track of how many times they’d broken up and gotten back together. Today was just as good as any other day. 

“Fine,” Mickey said finally, “today’s our anniversary. Happy?” 

Ian stood up, sliding his body up against him like the damn stripper he’d been, and wrapped his arms around his neck to kiss him.  _ Fuck _ , they could have skipped so much of the bullshit if he’d just let Ian do this from the jump. They knew each other better than anyone else, and Ian knew how he liked to be touched and kissed and pushed around. It was never this easy with anybody else.

“ _ Very _ happy,” Ian whispered around their kisses. But Mickey didn’t even know what the fuck he was talking about because he felt like he’d been drugged after weeks of withdrawl. Staying away to punish Ian was just as much a punishment for him, even if he didn’t want to admit that. Ian guided them back into his bedroom, slamming the door shut behind them so they could fall into bed. 

They were quick and quiet as they could be. Weeks without each other was just such bullshit, and Mickey was so damn tired of it. He didn’t wanna live in a locked room with the guy, but he didn’t wanna be away from him either. The back and forth was just exhausting. He wanted it to be settled and squared, which is why he’d been so on board with the courthouse wedding. Here’s the piece of paper saying we belong to each other; doesn’t matter what we do or how bad we fuck it up, we’re stuck together now. No matter what. No more of this, will he, won’t he, does he, don’t he, back and forth, up and down, fucked up game of waiting until the other one caved. They were in this. Full on. No more talking themselves out of it. 

When they were finished and Ian rolled off of him, Mickey immediately reached out for him. He wasn’t usually a waking cuddler. Usually, he’d rather die than admit he wanted any kind of affection. But it had been a long fucking day, and he just wanted to be held. Ian was good about that. Letting Mickey come to him and not making a fuss when he did. Not trying to embarrass him for needing something. So Mickey settled against Ian’s chest and threw an arm over his stomach, let himself be wrapped up around his goddamn fiancé. 

“Missed you,” Ian said, running a hand up and down his arm. Mickey grunted. “I  _ always _ miss you. Even when I don’t want to.” 

“Don’t be stupid.”

“I’m not,” Ian sighed. “Ask Lip. I bitch about you so I don’t miss you as much. Doesn’t work.” 

Mickey pinched his stomach, making him gasp and pinch him back. Soon enough, they were wrestling, each one trying to get the upper hand for god knows what reason. But it was very satisfying to shove Ian’s face into a pillow and cry victory. Ian swatted his hands away, unable to hide his smile even as he bitched about it. Mickey just fell forward, pinning his wrists to the bed and looking him square in the eye. 

“We’re done with that. All right? From now on, it’s just you n’ me. We’ll figure it out.”

“How are you always so sure of everything?” Ian asked quietly. Mickey considered that for a moment. Considered the fact that Ian had never doubted  _ Mickey _ and what he was willing to do, just himself. Probably sucked being alone in that head of his. So Mickey bent down to kiss him, to shut him up again, and let himself sink into it. He let Ian wrap him up in his arms, wrapped his own around Ian, took what he gave and found himself breathless. They ended up side by side, nose to nose, tangled up in each other. 

“If you don’t trust yourself, then trust me, ok?” he whispered, running a hand through Ian’s hair. “Cause I know your dumb ass and all the stupid shit you do.” Ian laughed through his nose and pressed his face into Mickey’s neck, who just stroked his hair and held him. “I’ll take care of you.” 

“Good,” Ian said squeezing him. “Then I’mma take care of you.” He sighed, sinking into sleep. “So no more pork rinds.”

“Bitch you wish.”

“No poptarts either.”

Mickey yawned. “Bite me.” 

“Or food court lunches. M’making you a salad tomorrow.” 

“Fuck you, m’not a rabbit.” 

“Go to sleep, Mickey.”

“You fuckin go to sleep.” 


End file.
